Mum has decided not to call the police. Not for my underage drunkenness, and not for Margueretta’s kidnapping.
Margueretta escaped through a tiny window, which she could do because she is so thin. They kidnapped her in the Black Dog pub after group therapy. The good-looking one said he was going to put her into films because she is so pretty and obviously talented. And they had a nice car, and they drove her around for a while, and then they took her to a house in a street she didn’t know.
And they locked her in a back room and told her she was now to do it with men for money, and she should start by giving a free one to the good-looking one. So they stripped her, and he did it with her. And he slapped her when she complained. He had a knife, and he said he would not hesitate to slit her throat and leave her there to bleed to death.
She thought she was going to die. That’s what Margueretta told us.
“How did you get back here?” Mum asked.
“On the bus,” Margueretta replied.
“But you said you didn’t have any money. They took all your money. That’s what you said.”
“They did. I didn’t have any money. I looked out the bus window when the conductor came over, and he must have thought I already had a ticket. I always do that.”
“You expect us to believe this kidnapping story?”
“It’s true.”
“So you were kidnapped by three men in a pub?”
“And raped.”
“That’s your story.”
“It’s true.”
“You left with them in their car. You were drinking! What do you expect?”
“I knew this is what you would say. You never believe me. How could you say I am making this up?”
“I never said you were making all of it up. But it seems a bit of a wild tale to me!”
“I need to lie down.”
The vomit was really crusty, and it took a lot of scrubbing with the mop to get it off. Then to the launderette with my bedclothes—and that woman who is always there. She’s always there looking for me and the black children, wanting to know what I am washing. But the launderette was closed because it is Sunday. I will therefore have to sleep on the bare mattress.
If it was Thursday, I would watch the telly tonight. Thursday is the best night for the telly. Last Thursday, Raymond Baxter showed us an electronic calculator on Tomorrow’s World. Mum thinks we should make do with multiplication tables. I think they should invent something really useful like x-ray spectacles.
Margueretta still watches Top of the Pops because she likes Tony Blackburn. And last week there was a man singing about killing a man who did something sinister to Maria. And a band called Middle of the Road is number one. A baby called Don has lost his mama and papa after falling asleep.
It goes chirpy, chirpy, cheep, cheep.
102
Rape is when a man steals a woman’s chastity without her permission. And if a man lies with a woman without her agreement, and she is not betrothed to another man, he is supposed to marry her. It’s more complicated than that, but Mum says that’s as much as I should know until I am older and is also why I should not sing the words to “Foggy, Foggy Dew,” even if I have heard Mum sing it many times. You never know who could be listening.
Margueretta will not be getting married, but she will be coming home soon after her latest treatment.
“‘Psychopharmacological treatment is contraindicated.’ I have written that in her notes because these drugs have what we call ‘teratogenic potential.’ What this means is they could cause deformities, Mrs. Mitchell. This latest news means we have to stop all drug treatments. But these voices are alarming. She is also experiencing powerful hallucinations. This is an extremely disturbing development. Right now we only have one alternative.”
“Which is?”
“We should try another course of electroconvulsive therapy.”
“It didn’t work before.”
“Yes, but it’s the only treatment open to us. It’s the only treatment we can be sure won’t cause harm.”
“Harm? To who?”
“It won’t harm the fetus. And after she has had the treatment, we can decide if she has the mental stability to bring a child into the world. If we terminate the pregnancy, which is quite likely, we will put her on a course of lithium.”
“Lithium?”
“Yes. It’s very effective at preventing suicide.”
“She isn’t going to commit suicide.”
“We don’t know that. You don’t know that. There have been many attempts.”
“She’s doing it for attention.”
And if lithium doesn’t work, then the doctor will have to try some new and even stronger pills, but then she will have to take them for the rest of her life—if she lives that long. I suppose no one believes her story about being kidnapped. But if she’s pregnant, it must mean that she has done it with a man. Maybe it was that man who kidnapped her in his car, locked her up, stripped her, and had a knife. Mum should have called the police, and they should have asked people in the pub what happened. At least they should have asked someone.
If you ask me, things are getting a lot worse around here, and even though I have covered the black floors in the kitchen and have begun laying the mock-oak parquet floor tiles in the hall, Mum cries most days. She even cries when I bring her a bag of bruised fruit and a bunch of freesias from Mrs. McWilliams on Saturday after work. That’s why she takes Valium every day. Not because of the freesias, but because Dr. Wilmot said she is depressed, and anyone would be depressed with what Mum has gone through with Margueretta.
Mum says she doesn’t want Margueretta back—not now, not ever. I don’t want her back either because it would be easier to do my homework without some lunatic screaming the house down, the neighbors banging on the walls, and Constable Ferguson coming around for a cup of tea to calm things down.
And then the letter came. It was postmarked London, and I took it to Mum in the kitchen as soon as the postman delivered it. But I don’t think she wants that letter. No one would want that letter.
Three million people died—mostly starved to death. Lots of them were children. It should never have been this way. But it’s over now. It ended eighteen months ago, so maybe now it’s safe to return. It should be safe, even if the children will never know their grandparents who perished in the conflict. And the timing is good because the education they came here for is done, and that means a good job.
A good job back in Lagos.
A time to rejoice in the new Nigeria. A time to rebuild under the new government, and a time to reunite the family, what is left of it. God rest the souls of those who are no longer with us. God bless you all for what you have done. You will live on in our prayers and in our thoughts forever. God bless you.
“Eech! They’re taking my baby away! They’re taking my baby away!”
Mollie Midget has a letter too. That’s why she’s at our front door. They’re sailing on the P&O Line from Southampton to Lagos with a few ports of call along the way.
“Eech! I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. Please stop them! My little Folami. My little girl. She’s my little girl. They can’t take her from me. I won’t let them!”
“I know. I know. Akanni is my little boy, you know. My special little boy.”
“Eech! I thought she would stay with me forever. Until she was grown up. We have to do something!”
“At least they will fit in. Everyone will be black. Not like here.”
“I don’t care. Eech! I don’t care. This is the end of everything. Everything.”
Mum said we should keep the “Puff the Magic Dragon” LP because she wasn’t sure if they have record players in Africa, and it might not survive the journey. After all, it’s three thousand miles away, maybe more.
Mum said she will watch him sail through the Netherworld to the Afterlife on his funerary boat. And for his sake, she will not cry.
But the two mothers are clinging to each
other and weeping and screaming and wailing. Two mothers who have to plan for the premature deaths of their beautiful children. Something no mother should ever have to do. They packed a cuddly toy and some tiny clothes to sustain them in the afterlife.
And every time these dear, loving mothers look at the sky, they will remember their dead babies and know they have gone to a good life. Forever making the sun shine brighter.
But in the darkness when we cry alone, we will have nothing.
Nothing but the despicable, vilest absence of something we once loved.
103
Carl has done it with his girlfriend. He told me all the details, and it sounded very messy—especially the bit about the toilet paper. He didn’t have a Durex so he wrapped some toilet paper round his cock first. There was no sign of the toilet paper when he was done. But there was blood everywhere. He didn’t know where that came from and neither do I. So she is probably up the spout. He was so angry that he gobbed in four jars of Mrs. McWilliams’ pickled onions and put the lids back.
Margueretta isn’t pregnant anymore. They gave her an abortion, which is where they kill the baby before it is born. She wanted to have the baby and then have it adopted, but I think they thought she would kill herself before the baby was born, and then the baby would die too. Either way, the baby is dead. I don’t know how they killed it.
Margueretta says she has been betrayed. She has been betrayed in a terrible conspiracy, and Mum is at the center of it. I don’t think she means “betrayed” the same way as Jesus was betrayed by Judas in the Garden of Gethsemane for thirty pieces of silver.
My mum is not Judas.
“Do you know what happened, John?” Margueretta asked.
“No,” I replied.
“She…I don’t want her to hear. I’m going to whisper. Come closer…she wouldn’t let me out. She…made me stay there. Don’t say anything to her. She’ll send me back. She can do it, you know. She’s got those doctors exactly where she needs them. They’re all in it together. She wants me locked up.”
“Mum wants you to get better.”
“You don’t know anything. Why would you? I was fucking locked up in there by her. She wants me locked up. She…come closer and listen to me…she wants me…dead.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“I’ve got proof. She doesn’t know, but I know. Do you know what it’s like to be locked up with fucking maniacs with bars on the doors and windows? No, why would you? I pretended to be mad. It was the only way to survive. I stripped all my clothes off and dug my nails into my skin until I was bleeding everywhere. Those male orderlies took their time getting me dressed again, I can tell you. Fucking perverts. Anyway, I’ve got proof…”
“What proof?”
“It’s all in the notes. I read my case notes.”
“What does it say?”
“I can’t tell you. But now I know. She’s out to get me. Her and a lot of other people but mostly her. She’s jealous you know.”
“Of what?”
“Of me, of course! And why wouldn’t she be? I’m everything she’s not. And she smells because she never takes a bath until she’s filthy. Can’t you smell it? I bathe every day. Sometimes twice a day. That’s why she wants me locked up. That’s why she made them do that fucking ECT on me again. It’s supposed to make you into a bloody zombie. Then you can’t stop them doing whatever they want to you. Just like her next door. Joan whatsername. It worked on her. But she was always a bit simple. But it didn’t work on me. Oh, no. I know what’s going on now. I’m on the lookout for their next move. She’d give me a bloody lobotomy if she could! Well, I’m watching her. Don’t say anything…”
“To who?”
“To her! Look. I’m never going to be locked up again. Get it? Never. They’re all fucking mad in that place. I’m never going back. Never. And another thing…”
“What?”
“I was kidnapped. Some people think I imagined it. You can’t imagine that sort of detail. I was kidnapped, and locked up, and raped. Just how do they think I got pregnant? Immaculate conception? I am not the fucking Madonna! I was raped.”
“Why don’t you tell them?”
“Tell them? They’re all in it together! Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? Watch her. You’re next. I know these things. Emily will be alright. She’s compliant. Mum doesn’t see her as a threat. Emily will be alright. Has Mum said anything strange to you lately?”
“No.”
“Didn’t she say you were just like Dad? You know, after you puked on that cheap sherry?
“Yes.”
“That’s the start, John. She said the same to me. I’m just like Dad. Dad said she was mad. He always said she was the fucking mad one. That’s why he ran off like that. He ran off to get away from her before she had him locked up…he’s the lucky one, wherever he is…”
“It’s not like that!”
“Really? And how do you know? Does she ever thank you for what you do? I’ve seen the way you did that kitchen floor for her. Has she ever thanked you? Or does she just wallow in that same self-pity, blaming others for everything. Blaming Dad, blaming me, blaming the floors. Blame anything except herself!”
“She likes the floor.”
“She expects you to do it. She will never thank you. I loved my father. He was a good man. He loved me. But her? She only thinks about herself. And anyone who doesn’t fit in with her plan gets the same treatment. Dad ran off just in time. She had the police onto him, you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. You were there when the police came for him. Looking for that biscuit tin with the money. She called them. It was Mum who called the police. No one else. She wanted him locked up. Now it’s me. Then it will be you. Get out of here as soon as you can. I’m getting out. I’m getting a job, and I’m getting away from this fucking place. Same as Dad. And she’ll never see me again. Never.”
“OK.”
“OK? That’s all you can say? She’s only interested in herself. She’s a self-pitying woman! Why do you think she goes out every night to bloody evening classes? Eh? Because she has no sense of responsibility, that’s why. But she brought us into this world. She was twenty-one when she had me. Then along came you twins. She always said she could have put us in a home. What kind of thing is that to say to your children? I’m getting out of here, I tell you.”
104
Mum is slipping further away, even with so much of the black floors now red and white and blue and green and mock-oak. Maybe it’s because those black floors are still there, still black beneath the colored tiles.
I’m ashamed of everything. Ashamed of the turds under the kitchen table. Ashamed of having only one pair of underpants to wear and one in the wash. Dirt and filth everywhere. Rice and an Oxo cube for tea. Purple, hairy heart-udder for Sunday roast. Blood on the wallpaper and the ceiling. Dead lice. Sister in the asylum, scars on her wrists, scars on her neck.
No father.
I’m ashamed.
Margueretta is out of prison now. She was only in Holloway for a week, but it’s her own fault for throwing that brick through the chemist’s shop window on Saturday night. She said she had run out of lithium so she went to get another prescription, and they were closed—so she just snapped.
Constable Ferguson said it was really wrong that the magistrate sent her to Holloway. For one thing, all Mum needed to do was take her back and enforce a curfew, and they would have let Margueretta off with a suspended sentence. And when Mum refused to do that because enforcing a curfew on a cat is nigh on impossible, they had no alternative but to stick her in Holloway because all the young offenders facilities were full. She had her own cell. But she could only take one bath a week, so she is lucky she didn’t have to stay in there for a month.
They locked her up again in the asylum when she was released. There’s no way Mum is letting her back home, not after the disgrace of prison.
Joan read about Marguere
tta’s conviction in the Evening News, and that was it. They left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. At least she’s had her ECT to help her with her nervous breakdown.
Now Dr. Browning thinks he knows what is wrong with Margueretta. He said it’s all now down to drug treatments. If you are just depressed, then Valium is really good because it makes the sun shine, and you feel good about life. And if you are suicidal or manic, then lithium is good because it stops you wanting to kill yourself. But none of this has worked on Margueretta because she still wants to kill herself. So in a way, the treatments have helped to reveal the diagnosis.
“We have come to a fundamental diagnostic conclusion,” said Dr. Browning.
“Which is?” said Mum.
“All along we’ve thought she was suffering from depression, probably manic-depression. But we now believe that your daughter has a significant personality disorder.”
“Disorder?”
“Look. Just listen. You need to listen carefully to this. We believe that she has something that is rare in a girl of her age. We believe that she is schizophrenic.”
“Split personality?”
“No. That’s a common but entirely incorrect view. It’s quite clear now that Margueretta cannot distinguish between real and imagined events. She is having profound and detailed hallucinations. We have observed her in the ward, and she continues conversations with people who are not there.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“It’s a very rare condition. Childhood-onset schizophrenia is highly unusual.”
“But she’s not a child! She’s almost eighteen!”
“It started when she was younger. We don’t know what causes it. But it is probable that it is part genetic and part environmental.”
“Genetic? There’s no madness on my side of the family. I can’t speak for her father, though.”
“I don’t think you should call it ‘madness.’ It’s a mental illness. And it’s probably only partly genetic. Her upbringing could have been a significant factor.”
“Her upbringing? What do you mean?”
The Boy Who Lived With Ghosts: A Memoir Page 30